Everything had been going great.
I was still having rough patches,
But I was accustoming, again, to suppressing my thoughts.
Everyone thought I was all better,
And I had to keep it that way.
((But recovery includes relapse.))
I was beginning to realize that it's my life, and I get to make my own choices.
Which includes ridding my life of those
Who make me feel bad,
And becoming the person I've envisioned myself to be.
((In a good way, not a bad one.))
So I make a plan of action, and I follow it.
And the rough patches are just that,
Not hills or mountains or valleys,
So deep that I become isolated and abandoned.
Until today.
I was kicked down from my pedestal,
And now I'm watching from the ground.
((And I've fallen in the quicksand.))
Out of anyone in the world,
You would think I could tell you about real pain.
I thought I could, too, but there are so many types of “real” pain,
Which asks the question,
What pain isn't real? What makes one type of pain any less real than another?
I've felt all kinds of pain,
And I think the worst will be finding the strength to push me back up
When I see how far I have to go
To start all over again.
((I am not ready for this.))